Even God Stood By And Watched Her Die
by lovemeartless
Summary: Of all the human emotions, there is none more peculiar and humbling; none so uniquely human and silently soul-crushing… as guilt. (FrancexJean)(EnglandxFrance/FrUK) Post-Jeanne d'Arc angst. (Warnings: Torture, violence, blood, and possibly unexpected endings. Complete warnings inside.)


**Warnings:** Graphic Violence, Ideologically Sensitive, Sadistic Torture, Mild Blood and Gore, Flogging, Based On Unconventionally Known Facts of History About The Maid of Orléans, Masochistic and Suicidal Tendencies, Can Be Taken As Yaoi or Not, The Hundred Years War

 **[2017/10/13] Edit:** Special heaps of thanks to Mashpy-san for the correction! I'm so relieved you caught that error and I really appreciate that you told me about it. (I'm even more dyslexic when numbers are involved! XD I was so focused on trying to research about what kind of whips the French used for punishment in that era! Merp.) And thank you so much for your meaty feedback, I'm so glad you enjoyed it. ^u^v Cheers!

 **Disclaimer:** Please take time to read the lengthy standard disclaimer on my profile page. It's for all my Hetalia stories, so once you've read it you'll never have to read again. Huzzah!

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Story#27: **  
"Even God Stood By and Watched Her Die"**

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The Nation of France paced his study, anxious to see the 'filthy intruder' caught spying the grounds. The moment his men had deposited the prisoner into his chambers, wrists and arms bound and reeking of blood, he laughed. And laughed. And for a while, he could not stop.

When delirium had ebbed away, all traces of the mirthless tears on his visage, everything down to his aura had been wiped stolid cold.

It had been weeks since, perhaps even months—he no longer bothered keeping abreast—when everything had been nothing but chaos. Most of his people laid the blame across the channel, and he feared–with good reason—that he was being swayed by their anger and their denial. Now, the last person—or Nation—he wanted to be reminded of was _here_ , _now_ , offering himself like a lamb to slaughter!

Despite the beating and the ropes that bound him, France knew that the man would not be here if he didn't choose it. Countless soldiers have been slain in past efforts to capture him, and so, being overpowered by a handful of guards was a laughable impossibility. What was he hoping to accomplish? _Martyrdom?_ And if so, what did he stand to gain from it? _Mercy? Absolution?_

"You are truly ze most selfish person I 'ave ever 'ad ze pleasure of knowing. I applaud your little act of false humility—Monsieur Kirkland."

England was on his knees, prostrated before his persecutor; he wasn't making any move to change that. France stopped pacing around his docile prisoner who remained mute and motionless, save for the trauma of the fresh beating that racked his body. Though substantially immortal, they were not impervious to pain. He pulled his prisoner to his feet by the collar, bringing him to eye-level.

"Did you zink zat by doing zis—whatzever zis is!—zat it will be enough to quell ze rage zat I feel?! It will take so much more zhan your puny life!"

England met his blue eyes from beneath low-lidded lashes but said nothing. France took it as insolence and forced him to avert his gaze with a knee to his gut.

With thick ropes tightly binding the younger Nation's arms and wrists around him like a straitjacket, he hit the floor full-impact headfirst. England blinked away the white spots exploding in his vision as quickly as possible; rolling over to keep himself from choking on the own blood pooling in his throat. After a bout of coughing and choking, he recovered enough sense of balance and control over his limbs to painstakingly try and bring himself to an upright position.

All the while, France idly continued pacing in a circle around him, muttering absentmindedly in his native tongue; stopping only to spit select acerbic curses the other's way. At that moment, it was very easy to see the neighbouring Nation as a mere zoo animal being trained rather than an old friend who was vomiting up his innards. And he gave that animal enough time to ease himself to a standing position before once again, striking him down.

Another blow to his gut, courtesy of France's fist. It was much stronger this time—or perhaps England was weaker now and completely unprepared for it. He crashed to the floor again after teetering for a few moments, this time on his knees. The pain was enough to wrench a scream from him but more blood rushing up from his ruptured internal organs effectively smothered whatever of that wanted to leave him.

And France simply continued not to care. He wasted no time in hoisting the man upright again by his hair, flinching almost indiscernibly when his hands come into contact with the blood oozing from a gash somewhere in England's head.

It wasn't that the French Nation was not used to the sight and feel of blood. Perhaps because it was from a wound he didn't inflict or from the fact that deep down he really hated the sight of blood altogether. He preferred his torture sessions to be precise and tidy; done as axenically, systematically, and as glamorously as possible. Even the sadist in him hated making an unaesthetic mess of things; there was an art to everything after all—such was the mark of true human sophistication.

It was plain from the English Nation's desultory surrender that he didn't have any particular plan in mind. _Did he imagine this to be anything else than the obvious stupidity? Something honourable or redeeming?_ Sometimes, the man gave him too much credit. Their fluctuating quasi-hatred-quasi-love made the boundaries between them even more blurred at times. Well, France thought that he was going to have to make those boundaries crystal clear today. Whatever it is England wanted by coming here, he was clearly unprepared for everything but his demise. And he was going to get what he had come for, France was going to make sure of that. _In spades_.

He was done with the foreplay, it was time for the main event…

"You zink zat I will consider zis offering—zis 'self-sacrifice'—a gift, eh, Monsieur Kirkland? Did you zink I would not see zrough zis _pathetic_ act?! You dare zink me a fool! I am not stupide! _Non_ … I will not be used as an instrument to stroke your guilty conscience! I will make you suffer, oh yes—but kill you…? Oh, _non, non_ … You andz I both know zat death is a mercy zat you do not deserve!"

The whip came out of nowhere hitting the restrained Nation squarely in the back. It was cracked with such blinding speed and force that it shattered what remained of his uniform, leaving an oozing scarlet incision where it landed athwart his back and cleanly ripping out a chunk of his flesh at the whiplash. England made an unintelligible, almost imperceptible noise. He took the succeeding strikes without a sound.

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 _Everyone's eyes were on her but England's eyes were on France the whole time. France watched her body writhe and twitch until it finally succumbed to the poisonous inferno. She was gone long before her flesh melted and caved in to expose bone; until even the dried stumps eventually vaporized and everything left finally crumbled to dust… France remained in the square, rooted to the same spot, transfixed, expressionless, unflinching; even long after the dying embers beneath her feet had been appeased. And England stayed with him from his post in the distance, long after everyone had deserted the sad, grisly, barren space; until France had left without a backward glance and made himself unheard of since…_

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One of the lashes strayed from England's flayed back, finding his upper thigh. More fresh blood dribbled into the intricate carpet, staining it heavily. He swayed, valiantly struggling to stay upright but his leg remained unresponsive and he began to fall. France didn't fancy having him mar the upholstery more than necessary, and slid an arm around him to hold him up. He snarled in the other's ear, sheer mordancy coated his voice—but he doubted England would notice, much less take offence by now, "What? Dying alreadzy? Is zat all you 'ave to offer me, Monsieur Kirkland?"

With one swift yank, France tore off the sticky tattered remains of England's upper garments. Only bits and strips of it snagged firmly in-between his bonds were left; parts that had grafted into clotting blood were pulled off along with the rest of the cloth, reopening gashes. England still managed to stifle any noises. France had to admit he was impressed at his neighbouring Nation's ironclad resolve.

"You haven't eaten anything in weeks…" France commented, gloved hands unintentionally moulding into the sunken skin in-between his captive's ribs, his slender fingers recoiling in repulsion. "How disgustzing."

France stepped back from England's wobbling frame, to depose the insults and mockery with more whipping. The lashes landed everywhere this time. His back, his legs, his chest, and arms… When the whip dug into his face, he was no longer conscious enough to register pain. His eyes drooped and his body collapsed.

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 _Did you know, Arthur?_

 _The sole purpose of our existence is to bear all the terrible secrets that humankind have been granted amnesty to forget… So their lives may remain pithy and pure._

 _Human as she was…_

 _The truth is, I envy her most, in her last day in Rouen._

 _She is at peace now in a place where she can never feel pain, hatred, and betrayal ever again._

 _Such a place only exists in dreams for the likes of us._

 _We can keep trying to kill each other in hopes of finding it._

 _We have all of eternity._

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England didn't even feel himself falling.

The last thing on his mind was how he had to stop his body from hitting the floor, lest his blood and gore ruin France's favourite antique carpet… And his wish was brutally granted, as fingers upon his scalp yanked him upwards and a cold, distant voice rasped in his ear…

"Zis is what you wanted, _non_?"

England tried to answer but realized that he couldn't even feel his face anymore, let alone his mouth or his tongue. Experimentally, he forced some air out from his lungs and expelled blood.

"TELL ME, WHATZ DO YOU WANT?!"

 _"Fffuuuhh… ffhh… guuvhh…"_

The last thing England knew before he was finally allowed to succumb to the dark void was what he thought sounded like wild, high-strung laughter. Only it was filled with such melancholy and despair; so loud yet so far away. He wasn't certain if it actually happened or was a hallucination—maybe both.

When he awoke, it was to the sound of birds twittering gaily upon his windowsill. He was in his bedchambers; dressed in plain clothes and oddly well-rested. He didn't know what day it was or how much time had passed but if the fully restored state of him was any indication, then he supposed a lost fortnight or two sufficiently filled in the missing gaps in-between. He sat up and did what he would normally do on every other normal day.

But he knew—the way Nations knew—when the world has shifted and changed forever even if everything seemed to have been restored to exactly the way it was. The same way a clock stops time when it is broken and resumes not where it left off but where time finds it. What was lost is lost forever. But the world moves on. Like clockwork. Like a censored glitch in reality.

 _Déjà vu, dreams spilling over, a momentary slip of one's sanity…_ Nothing that can't be excused. Mortals had many ways—were meant—to be able to forget.

Making it much easier to forgive…

Among Nations, however…

England knew it was optimistic at best—

He wanted France to forgive.

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 _«_ _Je ne peux pas vous pardonner._

 _Il est rien à pardonner._

 _Dieu même se tenait près et la regarda mourir._ _»_

 _(I cannot forgive you.)_

 _(There is nothing to forgive.)_

 _(Even God stood by and watched her die.)_

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He had wanted France to forgive only _one person—_

The familiar stylized symbol of the wild lily with its trio of petals reaching out from its enclosure greeted him in bright, angry red hues which stood out plainly against his pale skin in the mirror's reflection when his clothes had been stripped off. An eternal reminder of what was lost forever…

And would never lost be again…

He needed France to forgive _—_

- _Himself._

 **The End.**

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 **Notes:**

I underestimated this story. It started out as a simple PWP then somehow became something else I don't know what. For a plotless satire in disguise, it entailed so much more exhaustive research than I initially thought it would.

Any negative, angry, and/or violent reactions should be directed kindly to the awesome Mr Stephen Clarke, whose writings I find more credible than standard history textbooks. (Though, I should think you'd be used to the strangeness I write by now.) No, but seriously, you can go ahead and be all angry and unleash your ballistic purist fury at me via the comments below if you feel like it. I can assure you, however, that It won't change my views on the matter.

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(2013/01/25 – 2017/10/08)

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 **X-posted:** LM_Artless {AO3}

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 **MariekoWest** {AO3}{FFnet}{Dreamwidth} 


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